THAT BULLET HOLE 
HAS A HISTORY! 

PZ 3 
•M2329 

Th BY 

copy i H. C. McNEILE 


NEW 
GEORGE H. 


Sily YORK 
DORAN COMPANY 




COPYRIGHT, 1924, 
BY H. C. MC NEILE 



“A 


THAT BULLET HOLE HAS A HISTORY! 

-B- 

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 

©CIAS0S441 


OCT 2i 

"IvO 1 


WRITING gentleman, are you, sir?” said the 



landlord, as he put a full tankard on the table in 


front of me. “Well, well—it takes all sorts to 
make a world.” 

I did not dispute such a profound truth, but concen¬ 
trated on the contents of the tankard. A walking tour 
in the hilly part of Devonshire is thirsty work, and the 
beer tasted as good as it looked. 

“Not that I hold much with it,” he went on after a 
while. “I reckon that it’s better to be up and doing 
than sitting down and spoiling good paper.” 

Against such an outrageous assault as that I felt I 
had to defend myself, and I pointed out to him that 
one had to put in a bit of up and doing oneself before 
beginning to spoil the paper. 

“Not that I should think there’s much doing beyond 
sleep in this village,” I added sarcastically. 

“That’s just where you’re wrong,” he remarked tri¬ 
umphantly. “Why in that very chair you’re sitting 
in a man was shot through the heart. Plugged as clean 
as a whistle, and rolled off the chair up against that 
table your beer is standing on, stone dead. And that” 
—he paused for a moment only to continue even more 
triumphantly—“is the man that did it.” 

He indicated a grey-haired man who was passing— 
a fine-looking old man who walked with a pronounced 
limp and leant heavily on a stick. 

“Good evening, Mr. Philimore,” he called out. 

“Evening, Sam,” answered the other, pausing and 


4 THAT BULLET HOLE HAS A HISTORY! 

coming over towards the door of the inn outside which 
we were sitting. 

He stopped for a few moments discussing local af¬ 
fairs, and I studied him covertly. A man of seventy- 
five I guessed, with the clear eye of one who has lived 
in the open. His great frame showed strength beyond 
the average, and even now it struck me that many a 
younger man would have found him more than a match 
physically. 

He finished his discussion, and then, with a courteous 
bow that included me, continued his walk. 

“Sleep, indeed!” snorted the worthy Sam. “Thirty 
years ago, sir, come next month, this village was more 
exciting than London.” 

“Look here, Sam,” I said, “it strikes me that you’d 
better put your nose inside a pint of your excellent ale 
and tell me all about it.” 

He shouted an order through the door, and lit his 
pipe. 

“You’ll understand, sir,” he began, when the pot¬ 
boy had brought the beer and he had sampled it, “that 
when the thing happened I was just flabbergasted. 
Couldn’t make head nor tail of it, because I didn’t know 
what it was all about. It was only afterwards when I 
began making inquiries and talking to this person and 
that, that the whole thing was clear from the begin¬ 
ning. And that’s the way I’m going to tell you the 
story.” 

“And quite the right Way, too,” I assured him. 

“It starts nigh on fifty-five years ago, when I was 
a nipper of ten, and John Philimore—him as you’ve 
just seen—a man of twenty-one. You can talk of 
good-looking men—and I’ve seen a tidy few in my 
life—but you can take it from me he came first. The 


THAT BULLET HOLE HAS A HISTORY! 5 

girls were fair crazy about him, and well they might 
be. Tall, upstanding, strong as a giant—they don’t 
breed ’em nowadays. There wasn’t a man on the coun¬ 
tryside could touch him at any sport, or at swimming. 
Why, I can remember seeing him swim out with a life¬ 
line to a barque in distress in the October gales of 1868. 
Bit before your time, I reckon—but there’s been no 
gales in these parts like ’em since. 

“He lived up at Oastbury Farm, which had been 
his grandfather’s and his great-grandfather’s before 
him. Aye—and longer than that. Traced direct back 
from father to son for nigh on four hundred years 
was Oastbury with the Philimores. And John—he 
lived at home with his father, ready to take on when 
his time came. 

“I’ve told you that all the girls were fair crazy about 
him, but John had eyes for only one—Mary Trevenna. 
And a proper match they were, too, in every way. Old 
Trevenna had Aldstock Farm—the place next to Oast¬ 
bury—and though he wasn’t as wealthy as the Phili¬ 
mores, he was quite comfortably off. And Mary was 
his only daughter, just as John was the only son, 
though he had a sister. Oh! it was a proper match. 
Just as John had eyes only for Mary, so she never 
looked at another man. I remember catching ’em one 
day when they thought no' one was about, kissing and 
cuddling fine. And then John—he caught me, and I 
couldn’t sit down for a week. 

“Well—I must get on with it. When Mary was 
twenty, they were to get married. That was the ar¬ 
rangement, and that is what happened. John was 
twenty-two, and they were going to live in a small 
farm near Oastbury which his father had given them. 

“It was a great wedding. The squire came—that’s 


6 THAT BULLET HOLE HAS A HISTORY! 


his present lordship’s father—and everyone from the 
countryside. And after it was over they went off to 
Torquay for the honeymoon. Then they came back 
to the house where they were going to live, and things 
settled down normal again. 

“Of course, you must remember, sir, that I was 
only a nipper at the time, helping my father in this 
very house. Them was the days before these new¬ 
fangled schemes of education, when folks held with 
a boy working and not filling his head with rubbish. 
But little pitchers have long ears, as they say, and I 
very soon finds out from what folks said that there 
was a baby on the way. 

“John Philimore came in less and less—not that he 
was ever a heavy drinker, but after a while he hardly 
ever came in at all; and when he did it was only for 
a moment or two, and then he’d hurry off home. Not 
that things weren’t going well, but a lad is apt to be 
a bit fazed over his first. 

“A boy it would be—of course ; for generations now 
the eldest child born to the Philimores had been a boy. 
And a rare fine specimen, too—with such parents. 
John’s mother looked out the lace christening robe and 
all the old fal-lals the women like fiddling round with 
at such times. And at last Mary’s time came, and it 
was a girl—as fine a child, so I heard tell, as anyone 
would have wished for. But it was a girl. 

“Well, sir—I don’t profess to account for it; Lord 
knows there was plenty more time for ’em to have half 
a dozen boys, but it seemed to prey on Mary’s mind 
that she should be the first for SO' many generations to 
have a girl as her first-born. 

“I remember old Doctor Taggart coming into the 


THAT BULLET HOLE HAS A HISTORY! 7 

inn here one night, and leaning across the bar for his 
brandy and water. He and my father were alone, and 
they paid no attention to me. 

“ ‘Sam/ he said—my father was Sam, too—‘Sam, 
that girl don’t want to get well. There’s nothing the 
matter with her; at least nothing serious. She just 
don’t want to get well. I tell you I could shake her. 
Just mazed, she is, because it’s a girl, and John near 
off his head.’ 

“And sure enough old Taggart was right. Ten days 
after the child was born, Mary Philimore died. She 
died in the afternoon at three o’clock, and with her 
death something must have snapped in John Phili- 
more’s brain. 

“Never to my dying day shall I forget that evening. 
There was a bunch of people inside there, and nat¬ 
urally everyone was discussing it, when suddenly the 
door was flung open and John stood there swaying like 
a drunken man. He’d got no collar on: his eyes were 
blazing—and his great fists were clenching and un¬ 
clenching at his sides. He stood there staring round 
the room, which had fallen silent at his entrance, and 
then he let out a great bellow of laughter. 

“ ‘A murderer!’ he roared. ‘That’s what I am—a 
murderer. Confound you all! Give me some brandy.’ 

“ ‘Shame on you, John,’ said one of the men. ‘With 
Mary not yet cold.’ 

“And John hit him on the point of the jaw, and as 
near as makes no matter broke his neck. 

“ ‘Brandy,’ he shouted, ‘or, by God! I’ll take it!’ 

“And take it he did, for there was no stopping him. 
He tipped half the bottle down his throat, and once 
again he let out a roar of laughter, as he stood there 
with his back to the bar. He looked at the men bend- 


8 THAT BULLET HOLE HAS A HISTORY! 


ing over the chap he’d hit, and laughed and laughed and 
laughed. 

“ ‘What’s it matter if he’s dead?’ he cried. 'One or 
t W o—what’s it matter? I’ve murdered Mary: what’s 
Peter Widgely to her ? I tell you I’ve murdered her— 
my little Mary. What did it matter if it was a boy or 
girl? But she thought it did—and she’s dead. And if 
they hadn’t hidden the brat it would be dead too.’ 

“And then suddenly he grew strangely silent, and 
stared from one man to another. No one spoke: I 
guess they were all a bit scared. For maybe a minute 
you could have heard a pin drop in that room, and 
then John Philimore spoke again. He didn’t shout 
this time: he spoke quite quiet. And in between his 
sentences he took great gulps of raw brandy. 

“It’s burnt on my brain, sir, what he said—and there 
it will remain. For on that night John Philimore 
cursed his Maker with blasphemy too hideous to think 
of. He cursed his Maker: he cursed his child: he 
cursed hs father and, above all, he cursed himself. 
And when he’d finished he laid the empty bottle on a 
table, strode across the room looking neither to the 
right hand nor to the left, opened the door and went 
out into the night. And from that moment no man 
in this village saw him again for twenty years.” 

Mine host stared thoughtfully across the little har¬ 
bour at two fishing boats beating in. 

“A bad sailor, Bill Dennett. Always keeps too long 
on that tack. However, sir, as I was saying, John 
Philimore disappeared. From time to time there came 
news of him in different corners of the earth—and it 
wasn’t good news. With a wild set he’d got in, and 
He was the wildest of the lot. From South Africa, 
from Australia, from over in America we heard of 


THAT BULLET HOLE HAS A HISTORY! 9 

him at intervals—but only indirectly. He never wrote 
to his father, or to his sister—and it fair broke his 
mother’s heart. For John was just the apple of her 
eye. She kept on hoping against hope that he’d walk 
in some day, and when the weeks passed, and the 
months and the years, she just faded out herself— 
though she was still a young woman. 

“That was seven years after John went, and they 
buried her along with the rest of the Philimores. And 
then five years later the old man got thrown from his 
horse out hunting—and he died too—cursing his son 
on his death-bed for being the cause of his mother’s 
death, even as John had cursed his father for being 
in part the cause of Mary’s. A hard lot the Philimores 
—and always have been. 

“And so for the first time Oastbury passed into the 
hands of a woman—John’s sister, Ruth; though, of 
course, it was John’s whenever he chose to return. If 
he’d been able to, the old man would have cut him out, 
and left it away from him—but he couldn’t. But until 
John did return it was Ruth’s, who went on living 
there with the innocent cause of all the trouble, who 
had been called Mary after her mother. She was 
twelve years old when her grandfather died, and even 
then gave promise of being as lovely as her mother. 
Of her father she knew nothing; she’d been told simply 
that he was abroad and on one could tell when he 
would return. 

“On the death of the old man Ruth had written a 
letter to the last address at which her brother had been 
heard of, and she had caused advertisements to be put 
in the papers in Australia and South Africa. But after 
some months the letter came back to her, and there was 
no reply to the advertisements. In fact, there were a 


IO THAT BULLET HOLE HAS A HISTORY! 


good many of us who began to think John Philimore 
was dead, and seeing how he had turned out, no- bad 
riddance either. 

“Well, the years went on, and Mary grew from a 
girl into a woman. And the promise as she’d given as 
a little’un became a certainty. She was lovelier even 
than her mother had been, for there was a touch of 
the Philimore in her—in the way she stood, and in the 
way she looked at you. And in addition to her looks 
Mary stood to be a pretty considerable heiress. Old 
Trevenna—her grandfather—was ailing, and he had 
no kith nor kin but her. And if, as most of us thought, 
John Philimore was dead, then Oastbury became hers 
on her twenty-first birthday. For Ruth was only just 
in there as a guardian; Oastbury was John’s till they 
proved him dead and then it passed to his child. 

“So you’ll see, sir, that Mary was due for Oastbury 
and Aldstock—and that in the days when farming was 
farming. It made her the biggest heiress round these 
parts, and the young fellows weren’t exactly blind to 
the fact. Not that she weren’t worth having without 
anything at all except her sweet self; but with them two 
farms chucked in like, the boys were fairly sitting up. 

“But Mary wasn’t going to be in any hurry. No one 
could say which way her fancy lay—not even her aunt; 
though it did seem sometimes as if it was towards 
young George Turnbury, whose father was a big miller 
in Barnstaple. Not that they were tokened, but when 
old Gurnet drew him in the sweepstake he stood drinks 
all round. 

“A fine boy—young George—big and upstanding, 
who would come into a pretty penny of his own in time. 
And absolutely silly over Mary, as well he might be. 


THAT BULLET HOLE HAS A HISTORY! n 

And we was all beginning to think as things would be 
settled soon when the trouble began. 

“I was standing at this very door—I’d been land¬ 
lord then for nigh on two years—when I saw a stranger 
coming up the street. A great big fellow, he was, with 
a curious sort of roll in his walk, such as you often 
see in men who have been a lot at sea. As soon as 
he seed the sign over the door he made for it like a 
cat for a plate of fish. And I give you my word, sir, 
I got a shock when I saw his face. From his left 
temple, right down his cheek as far as his chin, ran a 
vivid red scar. It was an old one and quite healed, 
but it must have been the most fearful wound that 
caused it. For the rest, his skin was dark brown, his 
nose was hooked and his eyes a vivid blue. 

“ ‘Hot work/ he said as he came up. T guess I’ll 
have a gargle/ 

“"‘Very good, sir/ I said. ‘And what shall it be?’ 

“ ‘Whisky/ he answered. ‘And bring the bottle.’ 

“And I give you my word again, sir, I got another 
shock. He tipped out a tumbler and drank it neat, 
same as I’d take a glass of cider. 

“ ‘Help yourself,’ he said, and when he saw me take 
a little and fill up with water, he threw back his head 
and laughed. 

“ ‘Why the devil don’t you drink milk?’ he cried. 

“ ‘If I was to drink what you’ve just drunk with 
every customer,’ I said short-like, ‘I’d not be able to 
carry on my business.’ 

“ ‘Maybe you’re right,’ he answered, staring at me. 
‘No offence, anyway. But not having to carry on your 
business, I guess I’ll have another.’ 

“He filled up his glass with neat whisky again, and 


12 THAT BULLET HOLE HAS A HISTORY! 


then lay back in his chair, still staring at me with those 
blue eyes of his. 

“ ‘Say, I guess you’ll know,’ he said after a moment. 
Ts there a shack called Oastbury in this district ?’ 

“Well, at that I pricked up my ears, for I’d placed 
him already as a man from foreign parts. 

“ ‘There certainly is,’ I said. ‘If you go round the 
corner you can see Oastbury Farm upon the hill there.’ 

“ ‘I guess it will stop there,’ says he, without mov¬ 
ing. ‘Good farm, is it?’ 

“ ‘It is accounted the best in these parts and one of 
the best in the whole West Country,’ said I, and he 
nodded his head as if pleased with the news. 

“ ‘May I ask, sir,’ I went on, ‘if you have by any 
chance news of John Philimore? I can see you come 
from foreign parts, and since you’ve asked about Oast¬ 
bury, I thought you might know something of him.’ 

“ ‘Then your thoughts are correct,’ he answered. 

“ ‘For twenty years we’ve had no word of him di¬ 
rect,’ I said, ‘and there are those who say he’s dead.’ 

“ ‘There are, are there ?’ he said, and finished his 
whisky. ‘Well, they’ve backed a winner. John Phili¬ 
more is dead right enough: he’s been dead a year.’ 

“ ‘Good heavens!’ I cried—for now that the news 
was confirmed it seemed a terrible thing. ‘And what 
did he die of, sir?’ 

“ ‘An ounce of lead in a tender spot,’ he answered 
shortly. ‘Same as a good many other poor fools have 
died of. Say, now, there’s a daughter of his alive, ain’t 
there ?’ 

“ ‘There is,’ I said. ‘Living at Oastbury Farm now. 
And if John Philimore is dead, the farm is hers. 
Leastways, it will be in a year, when she’s twenty-one.’ 


THAT BULLET HOLE HAS A HISTORY! 13 

“ ‘And what would happen, mister,’ he said, ‘if John 
had made a will leaving all he possessed to me ?’ 

“ ‘It wouldn’t be worth the paper it’s written on,’ I 
answered shortly. ‘It’s all tied up—see? John Phili- 
more could no more leave Oastbury away from his 
daughter than he could give away Buckingham Palace.’ 

“ ‘Are you sure o’ that ?’ he said with a sort of snarl. 

“ ‘Of course I’m sure of it,’ I answered. ‘Didn’t 
John’s father go into the whole question after John ran 
off to Australia ? That’s what he wanted to do—leave 
Oastbury to his daughter—all tied up and secure. 
Went to Exeter, he did, to a big lawyer there, to see 
about it. But it couldn’t be done. From eldest 
child to eldest child it’s got to go—be it male or female. 
And so whatever wickedness John Philimore has done, 
he can’t do his daughter out of Oastbury. It’s hers—* 
and remains hers.’ 

“I tell you, sir, I was beginning to dislike this man, 
and I spoke a bit short. 

“ ‘And supposing,’ says he very quiet-like, ‘this 
daughter of his should die before she’s twenty-one?’ 

“ ‘Then,’ I said, ‘it would go to her aunt—John’s 
sister. Will you be wanting any more whisky?’ 

“ ‘Yes—leave the bottle, and if I shout you’ll know 
I want another.’ 

“With that I left him and went indoors. And half 
an hour later he was still sitting at the table staring 
across the harbour. Then he gives a shout, and out I 
goes. 

“ ‘Can you give me a room here ?’ he says. ‘I’ll pay 
what you like, and give no trouble.’ 

“Well, business is business; and though I didn’t 
fancy having him as a guest, I said I’d fix him up. 


i 4 THAT BULLET HOLE HAS A HISTORY! 

“ ‘Good/ he cried. ‘Then send out another bottle of 
whisky as a start. Oh! and by the way, is this wench 
married ?’ 

“ ‘She is not/ I answered. ‘But I expect she soon 
will be/ 

“ ‘So do 1 / he said, and laughed in a funny sort of 
way. 

“ ‘She’s all but tokened to young George Turnbury 
from Barnstaple,’ I told him, but that only made him 
laugh the more. 

“With that I went in and sent him out the second 
bottle of whisky. And then, what with one thing and 
another, and the chaps coming in for their evening 
drink, and telling them the news of John Philimore’s 
death, I forgot all about him for a time. 

“I reckons it must have been about nine o’clock when 
George Turnbury came in. He’d been up at Oastbury, 
I knew, because he had had his lunch in this house. 

“ ‘Say, fellows,’ he said, ‘have any of you seen a 
queer-looking customer about the place? A great big 
hook-nosed fellow with a huge red scar down his face.’ 

“ ‘It’s the stranger,’ I cried. ‘The one who told me 
John Philimore was dead.’ 

“ ‘Dead?’ cried George, staring at me. ‘John Phili¬ 
more dead?’ For, of course, he hadn’t heard the news. 

“ ‘That’s so,’ I said. ‘A year ago.’ 

“ ‘Good Lord!’ he muttered, and I could see he was 
a bit moved. After all, though he’d never known John, 
he’d been up at his daughter’s all the afternoon. 

“ ‘Well, anyway,’ he went on, ‘I saw this man nosing 
round Oastbury, and I tell you I didn’t like the look of 
him. So I passed the word to some of the hands, and 
Heaven help him if he tries any tricks!’ 

“ ‘In my life I’ve never relied overmuch on Heaven,’ 


THAT BULLET HOLE HAS A HISTORY! 15 

said a voice from the door, and there was the stranger, 
with his eyes fixed on George. As you can imagine, 
sir, it was a bit of an awkward moment, because we 
didn’t know how much he’d heard. 

“ Tve found that I’m quite capable of looking after 
myself, young man/ he continued, crossing the room 
and standing close to George. ‘And now may I ask 
why you don’t like the look of me ?’ 

“George Turnbury got a bit red in the face. 

“ ‘I’m sorry you should have heard that,’ he said. 
‘I didn’t know you were in the room/ 

“ ‘I’m still waiting for an answer to my question, 
young man/ said the other quietly, though there was a 
nasty note in his voice. 

“Young George, he drew himself up, for he had 
the devil of a temper of his own, and he didn’t like the 
stranger’s tone. 

“ ‘You’ll get the answer in a looking-glass/ he said, 
and turned his back on him. ‘I guess it was a powerful 
cat you tried petting,’ he flung over his shoulder. 

“The stranger put out both his hands quite gently, 
and caught hold of George from behind just above each 
elbow. Now, George was a powerful lad, used to 
handling sacks of corn, and I shall never forget the look 
of blank amazement that spread over his face. It must 
have been a quarter of a minute they stood there with¬ 
out movement, and the reason was plain to us all. 
George couldn’t move; he was as powerless as a child 
in that man’s grasp. We could see him struggling so 
that the sweat broke out on his forehead, and there was 
hardly a tremor in that stranger’s hands. And then 
the stranger laughed. 

“ ‘It wasn’t a cat, little boy/ he said. ‘It was the 
slash of a cutlass. And the man who did it died as he 


16 THAT BULLET HOLE HAS A HISTORY! 

did it. It was a much stronger man than you, little 
boy. But as far as you’re concerned, don’t be rude any 
more, or I might have to whip you.’ 

“And with that he let George go and swung round 
on me. 

“ ‘Send me up a bottle of whisky,’ he cried. ‘I’m 
going to my room.’ 

“For a while after he left no one spoke. George— 
who had a proper pride in himself—was well-nigh 
crying with shame and mortification at having been 
made to look such a fool before us all. And, of 
course, a thing like that was bound to get around, if 
only as a measure indicating the stranger’s strength. 
But as the days went on it was forgotten in the much 
more important affairs that were happening up at 
Oastbury. It had us all beat; we couldn’t make head 
nor tail of ’em. 

“For this stranger pretty well lived up there, and 
what Mary Philimore or her aunt could see in him was 
beyond us. He still kept on his room here; he still got 
through his two bottles of whisky a day, and sometimes 
three. But for the rest of the time he was at Oast¬ 
bury. 

“George was pretty near off his head about it all; 
seemed to think he’d got some hold over Mary—this 
man with the scar. And sure enough two or three 
times when I seed her, she seemed to have a terrible 
hunted look in her sweet eyes. 

“Then a month after he’d arrived we heard the news. 
At first no one would believe it; but it was true right 
enough. Mary had tokened herself to this man with 
the scar, whose name we now knew was Henry Gaunt. 

“I tell you, sir, it had us all knocked endwise. For 
Mary, that sweet girl, to marry this whisky-drinking- 


THAT BULLET HOLE HAS A HISTORY! 17 

bully, who was old enough to be her father, seemed a 
horrible sin. And once it was settled, what little mark 
of decency he had kept on to start with disappeared. 
He took a delight in picking quarrels and insulting 
people. He nearly killed poor old Dick, the policeman, 
one night—and only just escaped prison by the skin 
of his teeth. 

“That sobered him up a bit, and he was more careful 
in future. But even then he was a devil. Chaps as had 
come to this house for years, and their fathers before 
them, stayed away, because they were afeard of Gaunt. 
And this was the man Mary was going to marry. 

“Time went on and the wedding was due in a fort¬ 
night. And then one morning I was standing in the 
door there thinking things over, when again I seed a 
stranger coming up the street. The house was empty; 
Gaunt was up at Oastbury—but this stranger reminded 
me in a way of him. The same build—the same roll in 
his walk, and I thought to myself, I thought, ‘Good 
Lord! This ain’t another such as Gaunt.’ 

“And then as he got nearer I began to rub my eyes. 
I must be wrong, of course, but it surely was a stagger¬ 
ing likeness to John Philimore. 

“ ‘Hullo, Sam!’ he sung out. ‘Forgotten me, I sup¬ 
pose. I know it’s you; you’re so like your father.’ 

“ ‘Good God!’ I said, all mazed-like; ‘it’s John Phili¬ 
more !’ 

“ ‘The very same,’ he answered. ‘And why not?’ 

“ ‘But we was told you were dead, sir,’ I cries. 

“ ‘And who told you that ?’ he says, smiling. 

“ ‘Why, Henry Gaunt,’ I answers. ‘Him as is stay¬ 
ing here now.’ 

“The smile had left his face, and he stared at me 
speechless. 


18 THAT BULLET HOLE HAS A HISTORY! 

“ ‘Do you mean a man with a great red scar down 
his face?’ he said in a terrible voice. 

“ ‘That’s the one/ I told him. ‘And not only is he 
staying here, but he’s tokened to your daughter.’ 

“ ‘What!’ he roared, and I thought he was going to 
strike me. Then he pulled himself together. ‘Come 
inside and tell me all about it. But—wait a moment. 
Where is he now ?’ 

“ ‘Up at Oastbury,’ I said, and I’ve never seen such 
a look of devilish rage on a man’s face before or since. 

“Well, I took him inside, and I told him all I knew. 
And when I’d finished he got up. 

“ ‘Sam,’ he said, ‘I rely on you. Not a word to a 
soul that I’m back. Above all, not a word to that devil 
incarnate, Henry Gaunt.’ 

“ ‘You have my word, sir,’ I said. ‘And if you can 
get rid of him, I, for one, will be profoundly thankful.’ 

“ ‘I’ll get rid of him all right,’ he answered quietly. 
‘Usually back here at six, you say?’ 

“ ‘That’s when he begins his second bottle,’ I told 
him, and with that he left. 

“Naturally I was fair bursting with the news, but I 
kept my word and didn’t breathe a hint to a soul. And 
as the afternoon wore on I got in such a condition of 
excitement at what was going to happen, that I gave 
old Downley, what always drank ginger ale, a double 
whisky by mistake. At a quarter to six Gaunt came 
in and, sitting down in the chair you’re in, he ordered 
his usual bottle. In a foul temper he was over some¬ 
thing or other, and he sat there glowering across the 
harbour. There were two or three others drinking 
over at that table, and by this time my knees were 
shaking under me as six o’clock drew nearer. 


THAT BULLET HOLE HAS A HISTORY! 19 

“Five minutes to—and young George Turnbury 
passed down the road on the way to the station. 

“ ‘Hi, you—you young swab,’ sung out Gaunt. 
‘Come here!’ 

“George, he took no notice and just walked on, 
when, would you believe it, sir? that devil pulled out 
a revolver and fired. George told us afterwards that 
he felt the wind of the bullet past his ear—it was so 
close. 

“ ‘Next time I’ll hit you,’ said Gaunt, ‘unless you 
stop!’ 

“George stopped. 

“ ‘Now, you young cockerel, is it you who has been 
closeted all the afternoon with the girl I’m going to 
marry ?’ 

“ ‘It was not/ said a stern voice behind him. ‘It was 

1 / 

“And there was John Philimore standing just be¬ 
hind Gaunt with the muzzle of his revolver pressed 
into the devil’s neck. 

“ ‘And if you move, Gaunt; if you try any of your 
foul tricks, I’ll blow the top of your head off, as sure 
as there’s a God above.’ 

“Gaunt’s face was a study. He’d gone quite white, 
and the scar looked like a streak of bright red paint, 
while in his eyes there was the look of an animal at 
bay, a sort of snarling fear. 

“ ‘Is it you, John Philimore?’ he said, moistening his 
lips, for with that gun in his neck he dursn’t look 
round to see. 

“ ‘Who else would it be, Gaunt?’ said John. ‘You 
see you didn’t kill me after all, though it was touch 
and go, Gaunt—touch and go. If two prospectors 


20 THAT BULLET HOLE HAS A HISTORY! 


hadn’t come along soon after you cleared out with what 
was left of the water, having shot me from behind, you 
would have killed me, Gaunt.’ 

“Young George, he started forward in a rage. 

“‘You foul swine!’ he shouted, but Gaunt heeded 
him not. There was only one thing he could think of 
at the moment, and that was that his sin had found him 
out. And ceaselessly he moistened his lips with his 
tongue. 

“ ‘And then, Gaunt,’ went on John Philimore in a 
terrible voice, ‘having killed me, as you thought, you 
came to my home. You knew all about it, for I’d told 
you—and you thought it would be a fine way of spend¬ 
ing the rest of your foul life. And when you found it 
was entailed, and you couldn’t get it by forgery— 
then, Gaunt, your infamous brain conceived a plan 
which would have done the devil himself credit. You 
went to my daughter, and told her that I wasn’t really 
dead: that you’d lied when you said so—lied on pur¬ 
pose. You said that I was in prison for life for mur¬ 
der and bushranging: that I’d been guilty of unname- 
able crimes; that you had proof of it. And then, Gaunt, 
you told her the price of your silence. You knew our 
pride: you knew she’d do anything rather than that our 
name should be disgraced. And so you blackmailed 
her into the unthinkable sacrifice of marrying you. 
Can you tell me, Gaunt, of any single reason why I 
shouldn’t kill you where you sit?’ 

“Gaunt laughed harshly, though his eyes roved 
wildly from side to side as if seeking some way of 
escape. 

“ ‘One very good one,’ he snarled. ‘They’ll hang 
you if you do.’ 

“ ‘True,’ answered John Philimore. ‘Then I’ll flog 


THAT BULLET HOLE HAS A HISTORY! 21 


you, Gaunt—flog you here and now till the blood drips 
off you. And to save bother I shall lash you up. 
Sam,’ he called out to me, ‘you’ll find a rhinoceros 
whip in my grip. Get it/ 

“And then, sir, it happened—so quickly that one 
could scarce see. Of a sudden two shots rang out, and 
we saw John Philimore sink to the ground. And even 
as he fell on one side of the chair, Gaunt rolled off and 
fell on the other. 

“We rushed up to them, young George Turnbury 
first of us all. And John, he looked up at him with a 
smile. 

“ ‘Go up, young George/ he said, ‘and tell Mary that 
the wedding can take place, but the bridegroom will be 
different/ 

“ ‘Are you hurt, sir ?’ cried George. 

“ ‘Not as badly as Henry Gaunt/ he answered. 

“We looked at the man with the scar on his face, 
and he was dead. Shot through the heart—plugged 
clean as a whistle. 

“Well, sir, that’s the story. John Philimore was 
shot through the groin: maybe you noticed he still 
limps. And young George, he married Mary. But 
that shows you we don’t always sleep in this village.” 


THE END 




















LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 


















